


Cars, Phones and Global Positioning Satellites

by Minka



Category: Game of Thrones RPF
Genre: Humorous Horror, M/M, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 21:08:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1564121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minka/pseuds/Minka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Jon would have moved, Kit told himself. Then again, Jon Snow wouldn’t have ended up in a situation like this in the first place. Suave fucker. Kit kind of hated him at times.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Welcome to the fundamental social Siberia of rural fucking Scotland.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cars, Phones and Global Positioning Satellites

**Author's Note:**

> Copied over from my Livejournal account: originally posted 9/06/2011 @ http://minka-g.livejournal.com/110871.html#cutid1
> 
> I am sorry for bastardizing the Scottish accent so terribly in the text. The way I wrote it and the way it reads just sounds a hell of a lot more Irish to me. So yeah, sorry.  
> Also, don’t googlemap this town! My version of it is so much better than the truth… *shifty eyes* And of course, I mean no disrespect to anyone born here, living there, or, oddly enough like my best friends boyfriend, drinking there. And yeah, the fact that Richard still lives in his home town is laughable, but let’s just run with it for this little fic.

Winter really was coming.

No, in fact, fuck that. Winter wasn’t coming at all; it was fucking here and Kit was about to damn well die in the middle of it.

That was all Kit could think as he pulled the collar of his jacket tighter around his throat. He walked with all the grace of a man condemned to death. A trudge; the solemn gait of someone with somewhere to go and yet a destination that was getting no closer despite the passing of time.

Glancing over his shoulder, Kit entertained the idea of headlights on the road. The darkness that greeted him was the slap-in-the-face wake up call that his imagination needed. There was no one coming. In fact, there wasn’t a thing in sight other than darkness which cloaked more rolling hills and fuck all nothingness. A long stretch of fog covered road, no street lights to be seen and no sounds other than those of wide open and abandoned spaces.

Nothingness and in some strange parallel of life imitating art, Kit likened this to The Wall.

Welcome to the fundamental social Siberia of rural fucking Scotland.

None of this, just for the record, was going according to plan.

It was meant to be easy. A road trip, a surprise visit and happy reunions, all guided by his car’s GPS. Which, of course, told him it was quicker if he took the back roads, cut across country and avoided the highway. Why the hell not? Take in the scenery, enjoy the spontaneous drive, blast some music through his iphone and make a mini holiday out of it.

Somehow, it had all seemed like a good idea at the time though now Kit was hard pressed to even remember when said idea had even popped into his brain. If he could go back in time then he would have thrown his keys out the window of his flat into the garbage below so he could never find them again.

By the time the lights of Glasgow were a pale memory in his review mirror his phone had gone flat in the middle of his favourite Great Lake Swimmers song. It was annoying and put a damper on his entire trip, but that, he guessed, was what he got for not bothering to get his stereo fixed weeks ago. He had installed a shiny new GPS instead, figuring that iphones were made for music and his terrible track record of always being late due to wrong turns needed to be rectified.

But then, about nine kilometres after the death of his phone, Kit’s car had decided to call it quits and join its companion in the afterlife. Life; snuffed with the hiss of the engine, a rumble and then a whole lot of smoke and steam puffing out of the hood. End of the line; game over; someone dig a fucking grave and cue the violins. No amount of fanning, key turning and hood lifting was going to save the damn thing. Kit knew, he had tried. For a good hour, at least. He’d sat in that car, freezing without the heater going and had hoped that the engine would cool. Nothing. He swore and cursed, hit the steering wheel in frustration and then patted it in hopes of the inanimate object being swayed over with pretty words and loving attention.

Nothing.

He’d been thinking that he really needed to buy a new car for a while now, but there was something about the half broken down Ford that wouldn’t allow it. Somehow it was like an old family pet; loved and cherished and the amount of great life experiences that had occurred in that car during both of their lives had Kit rather loath to part with it.

Right now though, he was ready to take to it with a hammer, or a good old chunk of rock cause that was certainly in abundance in this part of the country. It was probably a blessing that there was now a good hour’s walk between him and the steaming mess of a vehicle that he had left on the side of the road.

It felt like he had been walking for years. He was steadily getting older, that was for sure, and his legs were getting to the point where they were about to fall off and turn to jelly. Or maybe that would happen the other way around. Rational, clear thought really wasn’t working for him right now and, again in hindsight, he wished he had stopped for a more substantial meal in Glasgow instead of the drive through burger he had opted for.

Up ahead he could see the glow of lights on the curve of the horizon. They sparkled like stars in between the clumps of trees and rows of hedges that fenced off dark farms. Life. Civilization!

Blowing warmth into his cupped hands, Kit rubbed them together before shoving them back into the pockets of his peacoat.

In the pale light of the moon, a highway sign shone, telling him that Elderslie was only another kilometre away.

“Just fucking great,” he muttered to himself, his breath forming clouds in the cold night air. Of course, that was a kilometre to the town and after that, Kit had no fucking clue where he was going.

Again, he cursed himself. If he had just taken the highway and not decided that it would be nice to see some of the bloody countryside – what was there to see in Scotland anyway? – then he would probably be hitchhiking with someone who had GPS and a heater. Surely it wasn’t the best way to rock up on Richard’s doorstep after five months, but it sure beat the hell out of freezing to death in the middle of some god forsaken Scottish moors.

Because that was what this was all about. A surprise visit that had seemed like a solid, concrete idea back on his comfortable sofa in his small London apartment. Kit was sure that there was some famous quote about the best laid plans but even he had to admit, especially now, that none of this was even planned. A right royal mess and a half; that’s what it was and as Kit continued to put one aching foot in front of the other, he decided that this, if he made it out alive of course, was the last time he was going to do something random and spontaneous.

Slowly houses started to appear, dark little things with lights at the front of the fence, marking their poky little driveways. Kit contemplated walking up to the first one and hammering on the door but opted against it. The lights were off, the curtains closed and it had been close to eleven when his car had broken down. Now it had to be well past midnight and what little Kit knew of small towns suggested that the residents liked to go to bed with the sun and rise before the morning light. And they normally had shotguns with bullets reserved for the types of idiots that came knocking at their door after midnight.

Another ten minutes – which felt like an hour – passed and the famous Elderslie Wallace Monument came into view on his left. It stood like a beacon in the snow, all tall and pointy and most likely impressive, but Kit was far too cold and disgruntled to notice. All that mattered was that he was finally there, in a place that was lit and that he remembered from the maps and that was as good a start as any.

It gave him a second wind, a bounce in his step that turned his trudge into a slightly limping gait of a man on a mission.

He could recall that there was a gas station across the road from the park. Thank fuck for Google maps. That was the only form of planning that he had actually done. After all, random road trips with a purposeful destination did need at least some basic direction.

Taking the bend under the street light, Kit tried to pull his jacket in tighter while tugging at the sleeves, yanking them further down his arms to cover his freezing hands.

The walk into the gas station parking lot seemed to take forever. It was like one of those bad dreams where you kept running and running until you were panting and covered in dream sweat and never moved an inch. Finally he took the step up to the door, his heart sinking even before he saw the sign. No lights, no automatic doors and not a car to be seen.

Closed, it said in an old sign that hung crooked across the glass.

Closed.

Kit stopped and read the sign again; third time the charm. Closed. Then he tried to the door just for good measure.

Most definitely closed.

“You fuckin’ shittin’ me?” Kit cursed. His foot swung out at a loose stone, kicking it across the deserted parking lot. It cluttered into the overgrown bushes and Kit could have sworn that he heard a cat yowl.

He turned on the doorstep, his arms lifting so he could ruffle the back of his hair. It caused his jacket to ride up, exposing thin t-shirt to the cold; Kit shivered and bit his bottom lip.

What the fuck was he meant to do now? Compared to where he grew up, this was the middle of utter, bumfuck nowhere. No mans land. A hole in the ground, a smudge on the map and Kit couldn’t even tell if there was actually a school in the entire town. He had no fucking clue where he was going and his best bet at a warm drink, helpful directions and maybe even a phone to call a cab was officially shut for the night.

Coughing into his numb hands, Kit decided right then and there that not only did he need a drink, but he needed a cigarette as well. Not that he really smoked, but times like these really called for a hit of nicotine to dull the senses. He tried to remember google, silently cursing that his phone was dead to the world, and closed his eyes. Wallace Monument, gas station and a loop in the road that lead to Main Street.

There had to be something on Main Street. Even the name alone suggested that. Glancing left then right and then repeating the entire process, Kit signed out deeply, his breath frosting in the air and opted for left. If his memory served him correctly – which it quite often did not – then he had to follow this road left and he would hit the main road of this tiny little town. Surely something would be open there, or there would at least be a payphone. Not that he knew what he would do with one of those. It wasn’t like he knew Richard’s number off by heart and short of calling his parents with a ‘hey, you would never believe where I am stuck’ opening line, there was no one he could really call. A tow truck maybe, but then that option would be reliant on the idea of there being a phonebook or directory on the side of the payphone.

Either way, it was the closest thing he had to a plan right now short of spending the night in the bushes with the stray cat and so he once again put feet to pavement and started to trudge.

Streets passed, houses blurred into one and Kit started to entertain the idea that he had probably walked past Richard’s house. Then that got sort of depressing and caused his steps to slow down so he forced himself not to think about it.

He was running through some of the lines of the latest screenplay his agent wanted him to audition for when he saw two things. The first was Main Street and that within itself was a happy visage. He had walked the right way and at a time like this, people should cling to the trivial things to keep them going. The second was far more exiting though and offered the promise of putting an end to this hellish adventure once and for all.

It was a pub and in a strange way, Kit was sure that he was saved. Liberation from the trials and tribulations of his current hellish purgatory and all that overdramatic jazz.

Painted lively buttercup yellow, it seemed like night never really reached the walls. Lanterns shone at the doorway, the paint glistening in the darkness and a line of merry looking fairy lights ran the length of the roof, casting multicoloured splodges against the yellow. And from the large, four panelled windows that stood on either side of the red door, an inviting orange glow seeped through, colouring the streets and seeming to warm the cold Scotland air.

Thanking his lucky stars, Kit picked up the pace, practically feeling the warmth already. It was a golden building heated by a fire and filled with hospitable locals who would be able to guide him on his way over a drink.

And then Kit got closer and his perspective started to change. The paint was peeling, the windows did give out a golden glow, but at least five panes of glass were missing and the sign above that said ‘The Wallace Tavern’ was missing at least two ‘e’s and half of the ‘w’. Other than the front door, there was an exit of sorts that opened into the mouth of the parking lot. It was blocked by stacks of empty beer bottles, broken crates, a forty-four gallon drum and something that looked suspiciously like a broken piano. There was a sign saying ‘Beer Garden’ with an arrow pointing into a mess of thicket and scrub.

Shuffling to a halt, Kit decided that The Wallace Tavern didn’t look so appealing anymore. In fact, it looked like something out of those slasher movies where people get killed off with electric drills for the entertainment of the locals.

As soon as the thought popped into Kit’s head, he regretted it. He had never been good with horror movies and now that his brain had strayed towards those twisted plots, he was suddenly very aware that he was on his own, in the cold and dark in a foreign place. He had no phone and no one knew where he was.

This was not good and there was no fucking way that he was walking into that possible death-trap of a tavern.

Even so, it was the only option Kit really had right about now. The rest of the street was dead, all darkened shops and drawn shutters without a soul in sight. So unless he wanted to walk around in the snow aimlessly and with no sense of direction, then his options consisted of the run down tavern or, well, the run down tavern.

Resigned to his fate, Kit sucked in a deep breath, nibbled on the right side of his bottom lip and stepped up to the entrance. He pushed open the door, ducked his head under the low doorway and walked, teeth chattering, into the surprisingly crowded room.  
Once there, he rather wished that he hadn’t done just that and had stuck with the tramping around in the snow idea.

Small towns. They freaked him the fuck out. The moment he was inside, all eyes, as one, turned to look at him. Mouths stopped moving, pints froze half way to lips and if it hadn’t been for the fire crackling away merrily, then Kit would have been able to hear a pin drop. It was just like a creepy cult; hive mind and all that Village of the Damned horror movie shit.

Bowing his head slightly in greeting, he nibbled at his lower lip and forced his feet to carry him towards the bar. They all watched, beady eyes like fish locked behind glass and Kit wondered if perhaps he should loudly introduce himself like an attendee at an AA meeting. Then again, the less these instantly creepy people knew about him, the better.

“Excuse me,” Kit called to the bartender as he slid up and rested his hands on the bar top. Kit was sure it wasn’t possible, but the room seemed to freeze even more, even the fire falling silent. He had never been so aware of his British accent before nor so thankful that a few years of acting school had taught him to drop the most obvious signs.

The bartender turned around, a man about the size of a plough horse with a face to match. He was cutting limes, the knife in his hand thrice the size it needed to be and now that Kit looked, he could see the slaughtered remains of the citrus fruit dangling off the blade like clear entrails.

Kit shivered and offered the hulking man his most charming, hopefully confident seeming smile.

“I’m looking for the Madden residence.” Voice crisp and clear, Kit tried to keep his teeth from chattering and his kept his shoulders square.

The bartender looked at him with all the grace of a cow contemplating which section of grass to chew; his grip on the knife switched. Kit swallowed thickly and subtly – at least he hoped – removed his hands from the bar top. Best to be safe than sorry; he rather liked his fingers. Useful things that they were.

Silence.

Kit blinked at the bartender, not really wanting to stare him down but figuring that, much like a wild dog, the man could smell fear. For the most part the bartender just glowered at him, his eyes narrowed and his nostrils flaring.

Kit’s smile widened in a nervous way, his eyes darting from the bartenders face to the knife to the creepy toothless guy on his right who seemed to have a fascination with Kit’s ear. Honestly, he was just staring, his mouth open and his head to the side. It made Kit nervous; especially with the small glob of drool that appeared to be gathering at the side of his mouth.

“Madden…?” Kit repeated and still the guy seemed to just blink at him. For the love of god, how many people could have that name in the middle of nowhere? He had done his research. Less than five thousand people lived in this town and really, that wasn’t much at all. Had this night actually been going according to plan, his GPS would be telling him to turn right in five hundred meters and all would be well. This would teach him for putting his faith in modern technology; useless fucking shit that it was.

The Butcher, as that was what he damn well resembled, glanced at Kit quickly, his bushy eyebrows crooked and then diverted his gaze towards Toothless. Then the two of them started talking, accents thick and it took Kit a few sentences to realise that it wasn’t even English. Gaelic; sure as hell wasn’t helping the situation at all. Toothless to the right answered, all slur and spittle while his eyes kept on staring at Kit’s ear and Kit prompted decided that they were planning to kill him and bake him into a pie to hide the body.

Eye squinting in frustration, Kit looked at the man in a way that clearly showed he didn’t understand. It didn’t work. The Butcher kept prattling, slowly getting louder and had taken to talking with his hands. It made the knife twist and spin and sent a spray of massacred lime towards Kit and Toothless, the blade flashing in the firelight like some sword in the darkness. Kit shivered at the analogy, especially as said knife welding man kept looking up at him and then towards a rather dark corner of the room. It was making Kit paranoid.

Then, again, there was silence and both men were just looking at him, one holding a knife up like someone starving and the other salivating while continuing to stare at Kit’s ear.

It was way past time to bail.

“No…? No Madden…” Kit shook his head slowly, his smile starting to fade. They were going to kill him. Or, if not, Toothless there was going to start sucking on his ear like a confused vampire and that, right now, seemed like a fate far worse than death.

“Alright then…” he continued. “Phone?” he asked hopefully, his hand making the general ear to mouth motion that Kit was certain was international. All it did was draw another bout of foreign slurring from the bartender, a hiccupping sound from Toothless and then that knife arched down and split a lime straight in half.

Kit jumped and tried to hide it.

“Nope… not one of those either,” he said quickly while sucking in a deep breath through his mouth. Pressing his lips together, Kit held the air in his lungs, nodded and started to make his escape. The trick was not to run; that would show them that he had clued onto their evil plans of murder and would somehow result in angry villages with pitchforks and a lynch tree. Kit didn’t want to go there and he absentmindedly rubbed at his neck as he took another step backwards.

Once he was at what he deemed to be a safe distance, he turned on his heels, put his head down and b-lined for the door.

He almost made it too; almost. He was close enough that he could feel the battle of fire warmth mingling with the cold night air from the open windows. So close to freedom and a long, prosperous life. Freedom was in his gasp and then the bartender spoke again and Kit knew he was fucked. Well and truly, Ned-fucking-Stark fucked.

“Boy!” Kit froze. Eyes wide, he swallowed thickly and counted steps to the door. About twelve. With a table in the way, or more like sixteen by the time he skirted around the obstacle. Not good odds.

“Boy!”

So Kit did the only thing he could. He turned slightly; his head twisting back to look at The Butcher and did his best to smile warmly. Truth was it turned out more like a grimace, his lips pulled wide and tight, not showing any teeth and his eyebrows were somewhere near the ceiling.

“Yes,” he managed to stutter out before plastering that look of pure polite terror back on his face.

The bartender pointed the knife right at him, the blade directed at his chest, and for one horrifying moment, Kit was sure he was about to throw it like some old fashioned weapon. His mind screamed at him to duck and run, to knock over a table and use it for a shield and yet he found he couldn’t move. Frozen to the spot other than the slight nervous tick in his right eye and the way his teeth kept trying to chatter despite the grimace.

Jon would have moved, Kit told himself. Then again, Jon Snow wouldn’t have ended up in a situation like this in the first place. He probably would have wrenched that knife out of the man’s hand before the threat was even confirmed and shoved it into Toothless’ mouth as a distraction. Suave fucker. Kit kind of hated him at times.

Yes, Jon would have handled this a hell of a lot better and Kit couldn’t help but idly wonder who the casting call would find to replace him once they realised that Kit Harington was missing and most likely dead, body never to be found.

Toothless was grinning like those old Indian guys that you saw on the covers of Lonely Planet, his features kind of leering in a really unsettling way. But it was the bartender that Kit was most concerned about. That knife went from pointing at Kit’s chest to flicking somewhere over Kit’s shoulder. It was a direction that Kit knew well; that dark, lonely looking corner and from the way the bartenders head was jerking towards it and the knife kept flicking, Kit got the impressed that he was meant to go there.

Yeah, like that was going to happen. He was just going to calmly walk into the dark and meet his bloody fate. Not fucking likely.

Toothless grunted deep in his throat and pointed in the same direction as the knife. Kit swallowed and tried to work up the courage to actually take his eyes off his future murder weapon and look at what they were point at. Maybe it was a sign that said ‘no Englishmen allowed’ and he was breaking the one fundamental rule of small town law. That would put him in open hunting season; trespassers will be prosecuted and all that shit.

“Snow?” a voice asked from behind him and Kit, for all his Worcester Sixth Form College drama training, was left speechless. Rooted to the spot was another good way to describe his shock; that and the fact that despite the familiarity of the voice, Kit really didn’t want to take his eyes off the knife wielding maniac. Maybe he was just hearing things. They said that your life flashed before your eyes as you were about to die and so maybe, right now in this strange little bar in the middle of absolute nowhere, he was imagining the one thing he really wanted to hear right before he died.

“Snow?” the voice repeated and Kit was pretty sure that he wasn’t actually hearing things now. Turning on his heels slowly, Kit looked over his shoulder and was greeting with a smiling face surrounded by red scruff and curls.

“I’ r’lly ‘s ya,” Richard said and before Kit had time to try and work out what the other man was saying, he was pulled into a fierce hug. Social etiquette saw him patting Richard robotically on the back, his brain still not completely comprehending what was going on.

“Kit,” Richard finally used his real name as he pulled back. Kit saw the questions in his eyes before the words even came. It was lucky because the Gaelic bartender was almost easier to understand than Richard when in the thick of his accent. “Wha’r ya ‘oin’ ‘ere?”

“You wouldn’t fucking believe me even if I told ya,” he replied, pretty sure that he was safe with his answer. There was a bang, a crash and the sound of a knife biting into the wooden top of the bar behind him and Kit tried not to jump. He also tried not to fearfully look over his shoulder to make sure that the bartender wasn’t running at him Jack the Ripper style, but thankfully the glass window at Richard’s back gave him a hazy reflection of relative safety. At least for humans; certainly not the case for limes.

Not that that really changed anything. Now it just meant that casting was going to have to replace two of them instead of just one. Shifting nervously on his feet, Kit wondered how he could go about approaching the situation in a subtle way that wouldn’t make him sound overly crazy. Yelling out ‘Run, they are going to kill us’ really didn’t seem like an overly Jon Snow thing to do.

“Goa’re frazin’.”

Kit blinked, his head cocking to the side and his eyes squinting again. He didn’t get it. Truth be told, he hadn’t really been listening, his mind far too preoccupied with morbid thoughts about that knife, soft skin and how fast he thought he could run in this cold. That added with Richard’s accent threw him for lost.

Richard laughed, in that very way that had been so infectious during long shoots and stressful times and Kit managed a smile. Even if it was a nervous one and his eyes were still locked on the bartender’s reflection.

“I’s’id,” Richard continued, his accent so thick that Kit was already lost. And then just like that it dropped and it was like a veil being lifted off Kit’s eyes. Or ears, as the case maybe and he could finally understand the other man. “That you are freezing.”

“Wouldn’t recommend late night walking,” Kit replied with a distracted smile and a chuckle. Then he shook his head, his eyes daring to leave the window long enough to glance up at Richard while a terrified chill ran the length of his spine. They had to get out; alive. “Then again, maybe we should-”

“Fire,” Richard stated simply, his hand somehow finding its way to the base of Kit’s lower back. Then he was pushing and stepping around Kit, turning him back towards the room and what was surely impending death.

Maybe Richard was in on it! Maybe he lured people in with his charming smile and sparkling eyes and made them feel safe and welcome and distracted until bam, just like that, The Butcher was on them, slicing off ears for Toothless before rolling out some pie pastry.

Glancing towards the bar with a shifty half smile and then back towards the fire, Kit shook his head and nibbled on his bottom lip, childishly digging his heels into the ground to pull them both to a stop.

“Kit,” Richard said in that tone that Kit both loved and hated. He used it with the kids on set; friendly and warm and not at all chastising, but firm enough that it left no room for argument. It made Kit feel young – not that there was much age difference between them at all – but it managed to make him feel ten years younger and about two foot tall.

Seeing no other option – other than to run, scream and flail and lose all credibility in his dying moments – Kit did as he was told and let Richard lead the way. It was what Jon would do; face his fate with courage and work out how to survive afterwards.

Resolve firmly in place, Kit let the Scotsman steer him through the crowd, pushing him closer to the roaring fireplace in the back of the bar. As they passed Toothless and The Butcher, the bartender ranted off something quickly to which Richard just laughed. Toothless snorted and Richard patted him on the shoulder before steering Kit past.

Almost instantly Kit could feel the warmth. The flames leapt up, crackling at the large logs of wood and sending sparks and embers floating up towards the chimney. Yet it was his back that was the warmest, Richard’s hand radiating an almost scorching heat that spread its way through his whole body.

Richard guided him to a chair right next to the fireplace and said something over his shoulder that could have been telling someone their aunt was a dog or could have been claiming his rightful slice of pie; Kit wasn’t too sure with the accent and all.

Then the hand was gone and Kit was sure that he was about to freeze all over again.

“What possessed you to go walking around in this cold anyway?”

Kit only half heard the question. His mind was on overdrive, his brain trying to count steps from the entrance and his eyes searching for other exits even as he slowly sunk into the death sentence chair. The heat of the flames was making it worst. Truth was, now that Kit was by the fire and starting to get warm, he hadn’t actually realized just how damn close to freezing he had actually been. Besides, the heat and light was making his eyes heavy and his mind lethargic. Tired. He was so damn tired that it was dangerous, especially right now when he needed his mind clear and focused if he wanted to get the two of them out alive.

“So I see you met Angus,” Richard changed the subject, obviously noting Kit’s wavering attention. His jaw jabbed over in the direction of the bartender, putting a name to the knife happy stranger; Kit shivered at the memory.

“Yeah…” Kit drew the word out, his mind waking back up with the adamant need to run the fuck away to safety. “About that… I, umm, he…”

“He’s a little bit scary, isn’t he?” Richard cut in. Kit was surprised to hear a chuckle in his voice. “He only speaks Gaelic,” Richard shook his head, a smile on his face. “He never bothered to learn what he considers as the ‘new bastard tongue’. Says Gaelic is great for the customers – authenticity and shit – but honestly all it does is scare ‘em.”

Kit let out a nervous half laugh and risked holding his hands out towards the fire. Don’t get comfortable, his inner Jon Snow told him; be ready to run. But he was just so cold… and Richard was talking so casually about their future murderer that it was all working to lull him into a false sense of security.

“He said he’s never seen anybody look so horrified at the idea of someone being in the bathroom before.”

“What?”

Richard smiled then, really wide and really cheeky and it reminded Kit of that scene in that new show where Richard was with that black man. Kit really fucking hated that guy, just for the record, but right now he couldn’t bring himself to even think about it.

“Angus,” Richard supplied by way of explanation. Kit must have looked beyond lost as Richard took it upon himself to further explain. “He was trying to tell you I was in the bathroom.”

It was one of those painful moments of clarity. The times when reality sinks back in so fast that it makes your head spin and your stomach lurch. That was exactly how Kit felt as Richard’s words actually sunk in past the layers and layers of exhaustion created delusions based upon far too many bad movies.

“That’s where… you were in the bathroom and… as in, in that corner… the dark corner… over there. Yeah. And he told me. Right.” Kit was well aware that he was repeating things, but right now he was feeling slow enough to contemplate saying it all again. He ran it through his mind, the words turning over and over. The pointing knives, the talk with Toothless and the nodding, the questioning looks and the darting eyes. Yeah, now it all made sense and Kit could feel his face flushing at his own idiocy. “Oh god, I feel like a moron.”

“Don’t worry, the tourists are worse. You should hear some of the shit that happens with Americans. Once had a guy convinced that Angus was gonna kill him and cook him up in a pie.”

Kit tried not to squirm in his seat, suddenly glad that he had kept his paranoid thoughts of death and dismemberment to himself.

“Took us forever to convince him that human pies were the sorta thing that only ever happened on the south side of the wall, down in London.” Richard laughed at his own joke and Kit forced out a nervous chuckle in hopes of making his own fears seem less obvious.

“Now, you didn’t answer me.” Kit was thankful for the change of subject. “What were ya doing walking out in the snow at this time of night?” Richard asked again. Maybe Kit was imagining it, but he was sure he saw a spark of what could have been worry on the other’s face. “Playing at Night’s Watchmen?”

“Something like that,” Kit laughed. He thought it would turn into a joke, a bit of a jest between the two of them, but Richard was already up and moving out of his line of sight and not for the first time that night, Kit had to wonder if this trip was really all that smart. Maybe he had read too much into the way they used to be, during and after filming. Maybe he was the only one who remembered curious nights and comfortable silences over morning coffee.

Staring into the flame, he resisted the want to look up and search Richard out. Playing the part of the needy idiot right now really wasn’t going to get him anywhere. Besides, now that the threat of certain death was over, he could remember that he had prepared himself for this, and if nothing else, the walk through the cold night had strengthening his resolve. If he made it here and didn’t get the welcome or outcome that he was looking for, then he was more than ready and willing to make the trek back to Worcester in silence. Even if he didn’t have a car right now. He would still find a way. No harm done. He figured he’d be able to judge what to do from Richard’s welcome; call the shots based on his actions. Friends or something else; should he say something or keep his thoughts and questions to himself?

He had geared himself up to face an easy play to call and right now, he was looking at hitting the road home come early morning. Hell, Richard hadn’t even asked him what he was doing there, or been shocked at Kit’s presence. What he was doing out in the snow was one thing, but what he was doing hundreds of kilometres away from home in Richard’s hometown was something else entirely.

It wasn’t until something warm fell over his shoulders that he pulled his eyes from the fire and his mind from his thoughts.

It was Richard’s jacket; warm and smelling so much of him that the scent drowned out the smoke of the wood fire, officially banishing the last lingering death fears Kit had.

“Bloody Englishmen,” Richard taunted. His hands were firmly planted on each of Kit’s shoulders, keeping him in his seat and still. “Don’t know ‘ow ta handle the cold.”

And then those hands moved and Kit just froze all over again for completely different reasons. Slipping forward, Richard’s hands grabbed at his jacket, tugging the two sides closer together around Kit’s shoulders, folding each side of the collar over and under and tucking the warm wool tight beneath Kit’s chin. There was a slight pull and Kit felt himself shifting backwards in the chair, his back going flush against Richard’s chest as those damn hands and arms tightened slightly, keeping him pleasantly crushed in place.

“Better?” the word was whispered against Kit’s ear, soft and secretive and for only them to hear. Kit could only nod and swallow thickly, his head turning towards the other man’s cheek and his eyes flicking upwards as far as they could. They met Richard’s eyes, oddly light and reflective in the firelight and Kit couldn’t help but lick his dry lips while Richard’s hands rubbed up and down his arms, generating warmth.

A squeeze of the shoulders followed, a massage of the upper arms and then they were gone completely. Kit felt cold again, even as Richard took hold of his own seat and pulled it closer before sitting down. It officially shattered Kit’s resolve to keep his mouth shut completely and yet left him floundering and not at all sure what he should take from the action.

“Don’t leave that on too long,” Richard explained, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. It put him right in front of Kit, his body practically between Kit’s legs and his eyes locked onto Kit’s face. “Else ya’ll end up with heat stroke and a fever in the middle o’ winter and that ’ou’d just be depressin’.”

Kit was about to say something, he wasn’t too sure what, when a woman appeared between them, tray in hand and offered Kit the single mug that sat in the middle.

“Coffee to warn off the cold,” Richard explained, making Kit realise that he must have looked confused.

“Thanks,” he said to the waitress while taking the warm cup, his eyes then flicking to Richard. “Thank you.” Richard smiled and Kit realised that he hadn’t actually called someone’s aunt a dog when they first sat down after all.

The mug was that warm that it almost burnt. It made the palms of his hands tingle as it chased away those last lingering pangs of chill from his fingers and between that, the fire and the warmth of Richard’s jacket, Kit was starting to feel human again.

“So…” Richard pressed and Kit realised that all this time he had been dodging the same question. Just what the fuck, other than freaking himself out, was he actually doing here?

Kit wasn’t even entirely sure.

“Road trip,” he said by way of explanation, hoping that it sounded more convincing once spoken. The two words fell rather flat and the rise of Richard’s left eyebrow said as much. “I…” Kit stalled for time, taking a sip of the hot coffee, his eyes flicking back to the fire. It was marginally easier to rant when he wasn’t actually looking at the other man, especially with him sitting so damn close.

“I don’t know really. I was in London and I was bored and… I just… I guess I just thought that it would be a good idea to just get in the car and drive.” He tried to make it sound as upbeat and positive as possible. Not like he was lonely in his boredom and really just wanted to see the other man.

“You just decided to drive. For over eight hours. To Scotland.”

“Yeah,” Kit nodded and busied himself with his coffee. “Why not, right?”

“Yeah,” Richard said slowly and Kit got the feeling that he was looking at him like he had lost his mind. “Why not.” Kit looked into the depths of his coffee mug with all the attention of a man enamoured. Anything to stop himself from looking up at Richard, meeting those burning eyes that seemed permanently locked on his face.

Another mouthful and Kit’s coffee was finished and he could feel his heart fluttering nervously. Such a little thing, but without the heavy warmth of the full mug, he lost most of his confidence. Kit put the mug down on the floor beside his chair and rubbed his hands together, eager for some distraction. It was funny; thoughts of Richard and their reunion, of chatting the night away and maybe even picking up where they left off at the end of filming had guided him there and now that he was presented with what he wanted, Kit had no damn idea what to do.

So Kit gave into his basic need and yawned.

“I think I should get you home,” Richard said decisively, standing to his feet. He didn’t ask if Kit had anywhere to stay – then again, the lack of accommodation for the evening was probably pretty obvious. Kit opted to not comment on the statement at all and not to question where home was. “Before I have to carry you. Again. God, do you remember that time…”

“Oh please don’t,” Kit baulked, his head shaking and his upchuck reflexes churning at the memory of all the tequila he’d consumed at one of their cast and crew parties. “That was horrible.”

“Horrible? The entire night, huh?”

Kit chuckled soundlessly, his shoulders moving as he closed his eyes and shook his head and summed up his confidence. “No, not everything. Not at all.” It was harder to say than any line he’d ever been given, memories of Richard’s mouth on his throat and his own hands struggling to get around belt buckles and buttons flooding his mind and tripping his tongue.

“Good.” And Richard’s hand was on his shoulder again, those fingers massaging and rubbing briefly before trailing away across Kit’s shoulder blade. “Stay here a moment.” No sooner had the words been said then Richard was gone and Kit was left with no option other than to do what he was told.

Kit had no clue how much time passed. It could have been less than a minute or closer to an hour that he sat there, staring into the flames and wondering just what the fuck he should do now. When Richard finally reappeared by the side of his chair, his presence caused Kit to jump like someone being roused from sleep. Richard laughed softly by his ear.

“Come on,” the Scotsman urged, his arm wrapping around Kit’s waist to help him stand. Kit noticed – of course he did – but the extra considerate attention wasn’t something he was going to complain about. Instead he actually made a show of blinking his eyes, yawning widely and even threw in a little accidently-on-purpose stumble just to keep that hand right where it was. Richard steadied him by pulling him closer. His arm was warm at his back, the chatter of the bar loud enough that Kit couldn’t really hear a thing. In the corner, a group whistled their way into an uproariously happy round of singing, depicting the life of William Wallace in all the ways that history books didn’t teach.

“Your jacket,” Kit remembered as they reached the door. The air bit coldly at his face and hands, already setting the chill back into his bones. Richard shook his head and told him to keep it. “You’ll freeze,” Kit warned.

“We’re not going far,” Richard informed him. “Besides,” he added while taking a moment to pull the coat tighter around Kit’s shoulders, “you need it more.”

Walking outside felt like even more of a death sentence than entering the run down tavern. With the warmth of the fire still lingering, Kit was hard pressed to believe that he had made it through this cold at all.

They cut out across the parking lot, passing the old piano with Richard’s hand still on the small of Kit’s back. The Scotsman steered him towards an old ute, beaten with the red paint faded and peeling and Kit couldn’t help but life an eyebrow in question while clearing his throat slightly.

“You drive an old ute?” Kit asked. Sure, his car wasn’t much better but in the grand scheme of things, Richard was a much more accomplished actor than Kit was. He should have gotten himself something shiny and less, well, dented by now.

“No,” Richard laughed. “I actually walked here; this is Angus’ car. Door’s unlocked.” That warm hand disappeared as Richard left Kit at the passenger side and walked around the bonnet, keys flicking over in his hand. Kit was all too happy to pull the door open and clamber into the seat. The ute felt like a freezer, the windshield frosted over and the metal interior icy to the touch. Kit shivered, pulled his layers of jackets closer and slumped into the passenger seat while Richard slammed his door shut. He watched silently as Richard inserted the key yet instead of turning the engine, the older man let out a small sigh and mirrored Kit’s own actions, sinking back into his chair.

It took a moment before Richard stole a furtive glance in Kit’s direction. The silence hung heavy and thick, that damn substantial that it was almost pliable and Kit felt the sudden urge to speak.

“I really shouldn’t have… I mean, I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have…”

“You came all the way here just to see me?” Richard cut in, those dark eyes locking onto Kit’s face and giving the younger man the strange need to bolt out of the car. But courage kept him. Maybe it was months spent immerged in the head of Jon Snow, seeing things from his perspective and living the life of a hero as he read his way through the books, but some tiny part of him stood up against his insecurities and told him that there were a lot scarier things in life than confessions.

“If I wanted to see you, I could watch TV.” The reply came easily, the words rolling off his tongue in a truthful way that no actor could achieve with a script. After all, that was the long and short of it, the reason his foot had ridden heavily on the accelerator the entire way and Kit was starting to realise that.

That brought a smile to Richard’s face, his eyes lighting up as a red eyebrow rose towards the heavens. Kit had to look away. He’d said it. Opened up the gates for the conversation that had driven him the entire way, across borders, though cities and into the unknown and now he wasn’t so sure he could face the response.

He could hear Richard shifting in his seat, yet he couldn’t pull his eyes off his hands. It was fear that drove him to stare, fear that kept his eyes from lifting. He had been happy to leave with no answer as his answer, but now that the words had all but been yelled out, Richard’s silence was threatening to crush him.

“Kit?”

“Yeah.” Kit licked his lips and watched as his fingers interlaced with each other, the icy tips pressing against the warmer backs of his knuckles. Such odd contrasts; cold and heat and ice and warmth. It reminded Kit far too much of filming and all those thoughts he’d put into his head in order to become Jon Snow and now he was starting to think that he convinced himself of something that didn’t exist.

“Look at me.”

Kit lifted his eyes slowly, almost unwillingly. He got them as far as the steering wheel before Richard’s hand was cupped against the side of his cheek, pulling his face up the rest of the way to meet his lips. Kit couldn’t bring himself to care about anything else. It was a chaste kiss, all lips and no tongue yet it warmed Kit in ways he didn’t think possible.

Richard paused long enough to say his name and Kit felt that hand on his cheek pull more insistently. Kit moved in response, twisting his body and then Richard was on him, pressing him back against the seat, stealing his breath with his mouth and licking at his lips for entrance. Kit obliged and Richard took control from there. Hands grasped and lips parted, tongues searching and Kit felt himself getting pressed into the back of the car seat and loved every moment of it.

“Home,” Richard all but groaned against Kit’s lips. He moved back, giving Kit space and air to breathe though that hand lingered, fingers lost in the curls of Kit’s hair.

“That’s what I came for,” Kit finally admitted. Whether he was talking about the kiss, the slow stroking of Richard’s fingers against his nape or the idea of home, even he didn’t know. All he knew was that this was it; the all encompassing reason he had thrown caution to the wind and risked the coming winter to be with the one person he couldn’t stop thinking about. He could feel the flush on his cheeks, feel the throb of his pulse in his abused lips and lack of air made the words that soft he was sure Richard hadn’t heard them.

“Then what took you so goddamn long?” Richard’s hand dropped as he repositioned himself in his seat and reached for the ignition.

“Car troubles,” Kit murmured as the engine rumbled into life. The heater kicked in, blowing hot air into Kit’s face as the demister worked to clear the windscreen. In the seat beside him Richard started humming to himself, making up for the lack of radio and Kit blinked, knowing the tune all too well. His dead iphone turned into an oddly heavy weight in his pocket, the memory of the battery going flat in the middle of the best verse of his favourite song sitting like a stone in his memory.

Richard finished off that song as they pulled out of the car park.

This is how road trips should be, or at least how all of them should end.

**Author's Note:**

> Funny thing is that almost three years later I have since been to Scotland where I ended up stuck on the side of the road after my car broke down. With nothing else to do, I walked to the closest town where I found a small cafe and experienced the rudest service of my life. Sadly there was no Richard Madden involved. I feel cheated.


End file.
